


Complicated Findings

by Nehszriah



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Foreshadowing, I just want something short and sweet so here we are, Prompt Fic, Slow Dancing, foreshadowing the s8 and s9 endings, mentions of Pinkwald and River, poor Danny's off with the lads or something during this since he's cool with it all, return of the outfits from Mummy on the Orient Express, they don't go to the club per say as maybe the aftermath of the club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 21:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20534708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: Clara finds an excuse to wear her dress from the Orient Express again, though it doesn't elicit exactly the emotion in the Doctor she was going for.[rated K+ just in case] - [approximately canon levels of romance] - [mainly just fluff that turns into prophetic foreshadowing later]





	Complicated Findings

**Author's Note:**

> The following is the result of a prompt from over on tumblr, which requested Twelve and Clara slow-dancing at a jazz club. That being said, this takes place post-MotOE, but pre-Dark Water… probably sometime after Into the Forest of the Night if we're really honest with ourselves. It also does not invalidate a certain conversation had during s9, but only reinforces it via "oh other conditions were met and we still feel like this oops", making it so that it's something they've gone over before.

It started because Clara had wanted to get some additional use out of the dress she had found for their date on the Orient Express. There had been an argum—no, _discussion_—over what constituted as an excuse to wear the dress again, as well as to why she needed an excuse to begin with. It wasn’t something the Time Lord seemed to grasp, but that didn’t matter much.

“I don’t want to hear about you and clothes, Mister ‘_I wore the same set of cricket whites for twenty years_’ or something ridiculous like that,” she retorted as he was whining that there was little need for her to wear said outfit again. He was standing by the door of her bedroom, watching her pin up her hair while still in her pajamas. “Now go put on something decent.”

“I _am_ wearing decent clothes.”

“The plaid of your trousers is broken by a brown sauce spill and your hoodie is about to gain sentience.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Do I? Really? Are you going to take that chance?”

The Doctor opened his mouth to defend himself and thought the better of it, nibbling on his knuckle as he instead concentrated on her securing her wig cap in place. “I thought you said you wanted to cut your hair, not pin it up.” Good, change of subject.

“This is to see if I like it this short first,” she replied. “It would grow back quick enough, but I would also have to deal with it _while_ it’s in the process of growing back, which is the thing. Besides, the TARDIS was kind enough to supply it last time, which means it’s part of the outfit now.”

“I thought you and the TARDIS didn’t get on.”

“We get on enough; now hush up and make yourself decent or I’m going to invite Danny along so that _someone_ civilized-looking will be on my arm. At least that way I’ll be able to dance all night while you wander off at the slightest whiff of something to be cross about.”

“Didn’t we agree that P.E. wasn’t going to be part of this? That he was going to be a completely separate part of your life and that we never intersect again so that we don’t get into a spat?” He waved around his arms for emphasis, though they didn’t faze her. “Besides, we’d only end up dragging him into whatever mess it is in the end. You can’t resist a good adventure.”

“Try me.”

“I already have.”

The Doctor retreated at that, finding that he was being subject to a full-on assault brought on by flying compacts and lipstick tubes. He went into the sitting room and entered the TARDIS, wandering the corridors until he found where the ship put the wardrobe this time, and got started on his outfit. For some reason, the suit he wore on the Orient Express was nowhere in sight, the ship having hidden it on him. He tore apart the wardrobe before the garments were literally thrown in his face, a certain entity wishing him to suffer.

“You’re just sour,” he groused. The TARDIS hummed crossly. “How is _Clara_ the one you’re getting on with and not me?”

Silence.

Grouchily, the Doctor gathered his things and left the ship, allowing it time to stew while he dressed himself in Clara’s tiny bathroom. After five minutes of bumping his elbows, knees, and head against the walls, he emerged fully clothed and ready to leave, going straight to Clara’s bedroom door to knock impatiently.

“Are you done?”

“No.”

He pouted at that and opened the door to poke his head in. She was still sitting at the vanity, wig in place and now concentrating on her makeup. “How much longer?”

“Patience.” She gave him a coy smile and winked. “You want everyone else in the dance hall to be jealous, yeah?”

“They’d be jealous even if you didn’t pale your skin only to make it pink again,” he grumbled. The Doctor leaned on the doorjamb and attempted to appear aloof, yet was concentrating on both looking and _not looking_ at Clara so much that he instead seemed bashful. “You don’t need to do that.”

“I want to though.”

“What does it do?”

“Gives me a mask,” she explained. It was cute, him trying to find a reason to keep watching her, and she allowed it for the time being. “Putting on makeup allows me to hide a breakout, or the fact that my students have been driving me bananas, or anything really. You’d know this if you paid attention.”

“I do pay attention.”

“Do you now?”

“Of course.”

“Then what are your findings, Doctor?”

He considered that for a moment. “Complicated.”

“How so?”

“This makes me feel… odd,” he stated. Clara put down her brush and turned to look at him, her large, brown eyes curious.

“**_Odd_**…?”

“Yes.” He searched inward for the words he wanted to say, knowing that now was the time to take his time, as there was no crisis they were tossed in the middle of and if anyone deserved his time, it was Clara. “My hearts ache when I’m not around you. I find myself wanting to skip straight to Wednesdays. Whenever I see you walk in through the TARDIS door, I feel…”

“…as though the universe has realigned into something exciting?”

“Yes.”

She let out a small laugh and smiled at him, still hovering awkwardly in the doorway. “I thought we’ve been through this.”

“When?”

“Last time I put this dress on,” Clara said. She waited for him to connect the dots and when he didn’t, she shook her head. “It’s called _being in love_, Doctor. It’s not that odd.”

“I never felt like this with River,” he explained. “How come I never hurt when she was gone? I never,” he placed his hands over his hearts, “felt like I was going to explode.”

“Now that’s a bit overdramatic.”

“No, it’s true,” he claimed. “With River, my stomach fluttered and my hearts _raced_. When we would part ways, it never made me yearn as I do with you.”

“Then what about back on Gallifrey? Do you remember how you felt when you were with your wife then?”

“I remember… and it was something that was very natural…”

She raised an eyebrow at that. “So I am unnatural?”

“No!” he blurted out. The Doctor gathered himself before stepping further into Clara’s room, kneeling before her and taking her hands in his. “My first wife and I… we were very comfortable around one another, though the rush I would feel when with River was more of a calming feeling with her…”

“…and when you’re with me?”

“I burn with the agony of a billion stars, knowing that our time will eventually end; that one day I will turn around while explaining to you how clever I’m being and you won’t be there. Knowing there is nothing I can do to change that… it hurts.”

Clara nodded and placed a hand on his cheek, caressing his face gently. “You silly, daft, old man in your stolen blue box—that’s what love is, or more like what it can be. You didn’t love anyone else any more or less than you do now with me, but every instance is different—no body reacts the same as another—and that is fine.” She paused as he leaned into her touch, soaking in the contact. “Why do you think I still travel with you?”

“The thrill?”

“…because I cannot imagine my life without you in it.” She pulled his face towards hers and kissed him on the forehead. “Danny makes me feel safe and stable and is a harbor in the storm, but you _are_ the storm, the chaos, all the things that need sorting afterwards, and I want it all. I am in the eye, safe from all the wrath and fury, while still watching the destruction happen around me.”

“You will never choose?” Curiosity, not contempt.

“Not unless something big happens—really big—life-or-death big,” she assured him. “There’s the chance we can change after something like that. I hope we never get to that day, because I don’t know what either of us would do. Just do me a favor, yeah?”

“Anything.”

“If I leave when I am ready, when that life-or-death thing happens, don’t end the universe just to get me back; it’s unbecoming.” She gave him some time to answer, frowning when he remained silent. “Doctor?”

“That might be the one thing I cannot promise.”

The air between them sat heavy, with both of them staring at the other without wanting to break the gaze. They sat silent for a while before Clara blinked slowly and nodded as she understood what she needed to do.

“Wait for me in the sitting room, yeah? I’ll be there in a tic.”

“…but…”

“No buts—just a tic.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stood and did as he was told. A couple minutes passed and his hearts burned when she stepped out of her room, only having made one change since she sent him out. “You un-paled your face.”

“I figure, if you don’t wear a mask anymore, why should I?”

“You’re not worried…?”

“This time? Not so much.” She took his hand and led him into the TARDIS, giving him a gentle smile. “Ready to make a stable time loop?”

“You really shouldn’t mess with the flow of things like that—”

“Shut up.”

Her smile became a smirk and the Doctor knew he couldn’t refuse. He threw down a lever on the console and flung the ship into time and space, coming to stop almost abruptly in what he knew at that present moment as an unknown location. The couple stepped outside and saw that it was a calm, dark, quiet ballroom, completely abandoned by all but them. Furniture was strewn everywhere, dishes were broken, flatware flung about haphazardly, and dust from the ceiling left a thin film on everything, suggesting that the evacuation had not been recent. Only one thing seemed to be barely-touched: a plate of sandwiches and (what was very clearly) the TARDIS teapot filled with fragrant tea sitting on a candle-lit counter that hugged part of the wall. Something rumbled in the distance, gently shaking the delicate glass-paned windows and debris underfoot.

“Smells like a war,” he mumbled. A piece of paper crunched beneath his shoe and he picked it up; an advertisement for a soon-to-play band that was likely never going to make their date given the outside environment. “Why did we pick this place?”

“It probably is one of the buildings that survives,” Clara surmised. She walked over to a corner and righted a small table, placing a discarded record player atop it. A small set of shelves filled with music poked out from behind a wall panel—either their existence was illegal or they belonged to the staff… possibly both. “Care to do the honors?”

The Doctor silently went to the shelves and plucked a record from the collection. He placed the vinyl on the player and started the device, allowing the needle to drop and fill the air with crackling anticipation. Turning towards Clara, he held out his hand.

“May I?”

“You may.”

Music filled the air and the couple began to slowly rotate in a circle, holding one another closely. It wasn’t a hug, honest, just dancing that was very much not hug-like thank you very much. Shutting his eyes so he could concentrate, the Doctor found that the pain in his hearts was no less, but it certainly was different. As long as he was with Clara, things were bearable. With her, he could face anything—the war outside, the quickly-cooling tea on the table, the space-time ship disapproving on the opposite side of the room.

Rassilion save him when he find that he no longer could be with Clara, because it certainly won’t be the universe that is saved.

Sensing the Doctor’s darkening thoughts, Clara rested her head against his chest, the act bringing him back into the moment. He brought his head down and rested his chin against the top of her head; the difference between the wig and her real hair was nearly night and day, though he opted to not express the findings.

“This is nice, Doctor,” she murmured.

“Thank you.”

“No, thank _you_.” She allowed him to bring her into a twirl before coming back into his arms. Before either realized it, the needle was skipping at the end of the song. “Care for another dance?”

“With you, Clara? Always.”


End file.
